(no subject)
Locally, the housing market is obscene. Prices are insane, which means that new developments are springing up everywhere, full of gargantuan houses in which only one or two people will live.
I suppose the land underneath the place I grew up (or at least spent the majority of my most meaningful formative years) had become too precious, because the neighborhood is currently in the process of being destroyed. For the most part the entire breadth of the place is nothing but a series of naked slabs, but there remain a few homes still standing. The vast majority of the still-standing structures are likely abandoned, as many of their windows are broken, doors are open, and lawns are festooned with furniture and garbage. The sides of many of them have been spray-painted with a capital "S" or "E," presumably by the various hard-hatted gentlemen roving the area.
So far as I could tell, there were only two places which were still inhabited. My reckoning is based upon two messages, each spray-painted on the side of two different homes:
"Do not enter. People still living inside."
and
"Do not enter. Waiting to be served by Sheriff's Office."
The first made me wonder if the messages were meant for the hard-hats or the parties who had deigned to smash the windows on the other few remaining structures. The second made me think it more likely they were meant for at least the former, and maybe both. The look that the "Do not enter. People still living inside." guy gave me as he walked through his front door as I drove by made me think his message was meant primarily for the latter.
My old place is long gone; I discovered its absence when driving through years ago. The old tree in the backyard is still there, and the ducks still tromp about combing the grass for bugs with their beaks, but my old home has long been nothing but a slab. The whole area seems so much smaller now, maybe because I never get out of my car, or maybe because almost everything is gone and so nothing blocks your view of the far side of the neighborhood, or maybe just because I was so much smaller back then.
I guess I should get to the point - I don't know how I feel about my old neighborhood being dismantled. Worse yet, I'm not sure how I am supposed to feel about it. I'm not uncertain of my feelings due to any sort of ambiguity or doubt. I simply can't seem to do anything but shrug when I even consider the situation, but I feel like that's not right. I guess I feel like I should know how to feel. I don't.
I suppose the land underneath the place I grew up (or at least spent the majority of my most meaningful formative years) had become too precious, because the neighborhood is currently in the process of being destroyed. For the most part the entire breadth of the place is nothing but a series of naked slabs, but there remain a few homes still standing. The vast majority of the still-standing structures are likely abandoned, as many of their windows are broken, doors are open, and lawns are festooned with furniture and garbage. The sides of many of them have been spray-painted with a capital "S" or "E," presumably by the various hard-hatted gentlemen roving the area.
So far as I could tell, there were only two places which were still inhabited. My reckoning is based upon two messages, each spray-painted on the side of two different homes:
"Do not enter. People still living inside."
and
"Do not enter. Waiting to be served by Sheriff's Office."
The first made me wonder if the messages were meant for the hard-hats or the parties who had deigned to smash the windows on the other few remaining structures. The second made me think it more likely they were meant for at least the former, and maybe both. The look that the "Do not enter. People still living inside." guy gave me as he walked through his front door as I drove by made me think his message was meant primarily for the latter.
My old place is long gone; I discovered its absence when driving through years ago. The old tree in the backyard is still there, and the ducks still tromp about combing the grass for bugs with their beaks, but my old home has long been nothing but a slab. The whole area seems so much smaller now, maybe because I never get out of my car, or maybe because almost everything is gone and so nothing blocks your view of the far side of the neighborhood, or maybe just because I was so much smaller back then.
I guess I should get to the point - I don't know how I feel about my old neighborhood being dismantled. Worse yet, I'm not sure how I am supposed to feel about it. I'm not uncertain of my feelings due to any sort of ambiguity or doubt. I simply can't seem to do anything but shrug when I even consider the situation, but I feel like that's not right. I guess I feel like I should know how to feel. I don't.